


Liar Dance

by Eristastic



Category: End Roll (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Dancing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eristastic/pseuds/Eristastic
Summary: They're both being honest now, so something's definitely wrong. [Set in Day 7, when Russell goes back to speak to the Informant]





	

“…Think it over. If you don’t end it tonight, you’ll only suffer.” The Informant’s eyes are pleading, which is new. It’s a sobering sight in a world splitting at the seams; Russell finds it calms him. It’s easier to answer, then.

He doesn’t want to leave.

“If your real body won’t wake up, you’ll be lost to the dream,” the Informant warns. There’s more than just a plea now: he’s begging. Russell isn’t used to seeing his own face twist like that, but perhaps that’s the point: it’s not his face anymore. The Informant’s appropriated that body, warping it to fit him, and he’s not Russell anymore. So Russell has to make his own decisions, and this one is easier than any he’s had to make before.

“That’s fine by me,” he says quietly.

The Informant looks like he was expecting it, but he still shuts his eyes as if it pains him. His fists clench a little; there’s a small shudder in his breath. But when he opens his eyes again, he’s smiling, like always.

“…Got it. If you insist, I can’t stop you.” He’s smiling, smiling, smiling, and it doesn’t look real at all. Come to think of it, nothing does. The air is thick and heavy. Stale. The walls around the two of them are shuddering slightly, and if Russell takes care not to pay attention to what’s happening in the corners of his eyes, he’s sure he can see things slithering around. So maybe it doesn’t matter that he’s choosing this, and making another person unhappy. It’s fine: making people unhappy is practically a hobby now. He’s very good at it.

When he turns his back on that fake smile, he finds a hand wrapping around his wrist, holding him in place. Obediently, he twists around again and looks questioningly at the Informant. He seems surprised at himself, staring down at their hands with his mouth just open.

It’s very, very quiet.

The Informant swallows, and looks up properly. “Before you go, I…” He swallows again, and then says, a little helplessly, “Once more, for old time’s sake?”

 

Russell couldn’t place when he started to get interested. It wasn’t even an ‘interest’, in the strictest sense of the word, because he never actually went out of his way to dance or anything. He never took any opportunities, and he never mentioned it, ever, because if you let people know what’s important to you then they’ll take it away.

Not that it was important to him. Or is. It’s nothing. It’s just dancing.

But it came on TV sometimes: programs filled with sparkly dresses and well-fitting suits and people gliding around a spotlight-swamped stage to music, and something had clicked. It was nice to watch, and it was nice to pretend that that kind of world was one he could enter. Not that he could. But it was nice to _pretend_ , that was the point. And the more Russell watched (absent-mindedly, not letting anyone see he was really watching), the more attuned to it he got, the more moves he remembered, and soon whenever he heard music, his mind was filled with choreography. Not good choreography, of course. Not good at all. Just satisfying.

It was something out of place with the rest of his life, and perhaps that was why he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t draw, couldn’t write, couldn’t sing, because those all left traces. He couldn’t talk either, so the only way he could get any release was to imagine faceless figures dancing to snippets of music.

But they weren’t him. It was only natural that they wouldn’t help him come to grips with what he was feeling. He’d never actually _danced_ : it was easier to pretend he didn’t feel anything.

 

“For old time’s sake,” he repeats hollowly.

“Do you really want to fade away with this world without ever once trying it?” the Informant laughs, but his voice is brittle and his smile is more brittle still. He lets go of Russell’s wrist and holds his hand out, his fingers half-curled in a terrified invitation.

“I didn’t think you–”

“I want to too,” the Informant blurts out. He looks ready to cry. “It’s important to you, so it’s important to me. I want to share this with you – did you think I wouldn’t? I don’t want to just forget about the things that mean something to me, and I don’t want you to pretend they mean nothing either.”

There isn’t much he can say to that, not when the Informant looks like he regrets saying it at all. So he agrees, and, after the initial shock, the Informant smiles in relief, and turns to bring out an old radio.

It’s nothing complicated, because neither of them could handle complicated. It’s just a hand on each other’s shoulders, another on the waist, a creaking, lilting waltz playing raggedly in the background, and the two of them moving together. Russell looks at their hands; the Informant does the same, but with a lot more swallowing. It’s when the Informant moves a step back, lifting their hands up to spin Russell clumsily, that Russell realises there may be something more to it than that.

“You’re scared,” he says.

The music picks up a little, with something that sounds like a violin but could also be a cello, given the poor audio quality.

“I’m not,” the Informant laughs. “Is this you trying to project onto me? Have you changed your mind?”

“I haven’t,” Russell says calmly, putting his hand back on the Informant’s waist. He can feel a pulse in the other hand, fast and fluttery, but he’s not interested in putting the other boy in an awkward situation, so he doesn’t look up. He just watches their hands, and sees every twitch of the Informant’s fingers.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says.

The Informant falters for a second, but gathers himself again and they fall back into each other’s rhythm, turning round and round with moderately-paced steps. It’s an intoxicatingly simple kind of dance. It’s got them too close together, or too far apart, depending on how you look at it. For a while, they just move, and Russell begins to think he imagined saying it, but then the Informant hangs his head like he’s lost something.

“Of course I have to stay,” the Informant whispers hoarsely. His shaggy hair is falling into his eyes, his head bowed low. “I can’t leave you.”

Russell doesn’t ask what kind of ‘can’t’ that is, but he does wonder.

“I just wanted you to be a success,” the Informant says.

“I think a lot of people wanted that.”

A rueful kind of laugh. “That’s not what I meant. I mean the experiment, and you finally feeling guilt: I thought things would get better, but this is just a flawed system, isn’t it? It’s unreasonable to show people such a happy dream and not expect them to get attached.”

Russell nods, slowly becoming aware that he’s now propping up most of the Informant’s weight as they turn.

“So it’s unreasonable, too, to expect me to not get attached,” the Informant says. “That makes sense, doesn’t it? I just wanted you to be a success, and leave and live happily afterwards, but every time I thought about it, I caught myself thinking that I’d prefer these days last forever instead. Which is stupid. That’s something you should be thinking, not me. I’m not getting anything out of this. I just provide information. I’m not even real, am I?”

“You’d know that better than I would.”

The Informant grins, lifting his head. There are tears pooling in his eyes, but Russell doesn’t mention them.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to know it myself, aren’t I? And here I am just wasting time. What’s this going to change? Do you feel like you want to live in the real world now?”

They turn abruptly, the Informant taking back control and leading them to the tinny tune weaving through the room. Russell shakes his head.

“Of course you don’t. I didn’t change that conviction of yours with this. I couldn’t change anything if I tried. Except that I don’t think I’ve tried properly. I could do it: I’m sure I could change your mind if I really, really tried, but I don’t think I want to. I get scared when I think about all of this ending, but when I think about you leaving the dream and living, I feel something more than just fear, and I think that’s been stopping me from trying to persuade you.” He breathes softly, moves in closer, and Russell can almost feel it when he says, “You know why, don’t you?”

The light is fading around them, and they forgot to turn the lights on. Or maybe that was on purpose, to keep their shadows long and their faces bathed in shadow so they don’t have to see each other properly; so they don’t have to see that face they both know so well.

And Russell doesn’t answer: before he can put any thought to the question, the Informant’s hand moves from his waist to the small of his back, and then he’s leaning backwards, the Informant’s face directly above his. The music moves on; they don’t. Russell doesn’t think he’s supporting any of his own weight anymore: he’s suspended here, waiting with one hand stretched into empty air and the other held so tightly he isn’t sure any blood’s getting to his fingers. There are gentle breaths on his neck.

“Hey, Russell,” the Informant says quietly. His expression is barely visible in the shadow, and his hair is lit up by the late-afternoon sun like a halo. “Do you mind if I pretend something? Do you mind if I let myself believe you’re staying here so you don’t have to leave me behind?”

Russell can’t hear the music anymore: blood’s pounding in his ears too loudly to catch anything but that whisper. He feels sensitive, like every touch is too much, but somehow he manages to open his mouth and say, “I don’t mind.”

It’s not really a lie, but it’s not really the truth, either.


End file.
